


a thing of such beauty (must be called love)

by azulaahai



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, F/M, I’m thinking beginning of 20th century?, Jon is a painter, Slow Burn, heavy Downton Abbey vibes, if you stick with me a while I promise there will be painting sessions with awkward sexual tension, it’s as if I couldn't decide if I wanted to rip off downton abbey or titanic so I chose both lmao, vague historical AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-17 18:40:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16979736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azulaahai/pseuds/azulaahai
Summary: Famed, solitary artist Jon Snow comes to Winterfell Hall to paint a portrait. However, encountering Sansa Stark, the sister of the lord of Winterfell, makes things complicated. It's not just that she adores his work - it's that she also seems to detest him.A slowburn enemies to lovers fic set in a vague Downton Abbey-esque era.





	1. Coming North

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, no idea what's going on. This one is meant to be a looong one, and for once I have it mostly plotted out already but we'll see how this goes! This first part is messy, sorry about that. I just want to write about Jon painting Sansa, okay. That's all I came here for lmao  
> Title from "Dear Darling" by Mary Margaret O'Hara.

Sansa had absolutely _no_ ulterior motives for this visit.

 

Genuinely! She simply wanted to visit her brother, whom she rarely saw, and his sweet wife, whom had just given birth to a son. It was Sansa’s first time becoming an aunt, and who could blame her for wanting to see and spend time with her infant nephew? Besides, she had not been home to Winterfell Hall in ages, and she always missed it when she was away for too long, her northern roots making themselves known.

 

There were in other words multiple reasons for her to come north at this particular time.

 

And if her visit to Winterfell Hall simply happened to coincide with that of Jon Snow, the painter whom she’d admired for ages now, that was to be viewed as a mere fortunate coincidence indeed.

 

It was Jeyne, her sister-in-law, who had first broken the news to Sansa, with a letter in her typical warm, engaging writing, a few months after the birth of Jeyne’s and Robb’s son, Eddard. Wanting to eternalize her new little family, Jeyne had decided to commission a portrait of herself, her husband and their babe. Robb, with the obliging and eager-to-please spirit so common among newlyweds and new fathers, had insisted she do so from the most famed (and expensive, though that was a tale for another time) artist in Westeros - Jon Snow.

 

The man who’s work Sansa had adored since she was young, who’s paintings spoke to something deep within her, enchanting her with their quiet, seething passion, a tamed sort of wild. 

 

She’d taken every chance she could get to see some of Snow’s work, falling in love with hauntingly beautiful landscapes and intimately detailed portraits. Never had she thought she would ever get to meet him. 

 

Jon Snow was known as much for his painting brush as for his air of mystery, keeping away from the public eye, only very occasionally lending himself to portrait commission. (For the money, presumably - Sansa supposed even great artist must have something to live by, though the thought did slightly take away from the romance of it all.) To have him come to Winterfell … It was once in a lifetime, so lucky Sansa was tempted to think of it as a gift from the gods. Sansa _had_ to be there. She had to. 

 

And so she’d traveled north, to austere landscapes and Robb’s hugs and Jeyne’s company and a little nephew to spoil. She enjoyed the two weeks spent there with only their little family beyond words - Sansa was fond of the south, but home was home and it was here she felt the most herself, the most at peace.Yet the time was also soaked with anticipation for the arrival of Snow, who was meant to arrive a fortnight after her, and Sansa attempted to quell her excitement at this notion so as not to annoy Jeyne. 

 

 

They lived closely and amicably, Sansa and Jeyne and Robb and the baby, during the two weeks, and Sansa was both honored and moved by how welcomed and cherished she was within the new little family. The child, little Eddard, was a lovely creature, an unusually calm and content baby, and Sansa took up the role of engaged aunt with the utmost enthusiasm. 

 

To pass the time, and give her brother and his family some time on their own every once in a while, Sansa went on long walks in the familiar dimness of the woods of the Winterfell estate, relishing the northern air in her lungs after so long a time spent south. She loved the special quiet of the northern forest - never truly silent, but always peaceful.

 

Bittersweet memories came to her often on these walks; she remembered rides in these woods with Arya and father, walks with mother and Bran and Rickon when the latter was just a baby. Sansa used to come out here on her own as well, with a book, or a quill, or a sketch in hand, to escape the bustle of the big house and be alone for a little while. In fact, unless she remembered it wrong, it was under that enormous, ancient tree in the clearing beside the lake that she’d written her very first love letter, though she had forgotten to whom. (Loras Tyrell, most like. Or, she remembered with a shudder, maybe that Baratheon boy.) 

 

Sansa re-explored the interior of Winterfell Hall, too - she walked the corridors, visited the old rooms no longer in use, tried and failed to decide whether the memories of her parents that inevitably came back were more filled with sorrow or joy. And, finally, one late evening after she had been home for almost a fortnight, and Jon Snow was set to arrive the very next morning, Sansa ventured into the gallery. 

 

She was not sure why she waited that long to do so. After all, the gallery used to be her very favorite room in the house, almost a place of worship for her. She’d spent hours in here, looking at the paintings, dreaming up stories to go with them all. 

 

It felt nearly surreal, to step in there now and see the artworks - like seeing old friends after years had gone by, and finding them strangely familiar, or perhaps familiarly strange. Holding her candle in front of her like a shield, Sansa walked almost breathlessly through the gallery, past portraits of her ancestors and beautiful depictions of the northern landscape. She passed the portrait of her parents without stopping, ignoring the lump in her throat. Sansa could not bear to see that, not tonight. It was as if her feet were moving on their own accord - knowing the way - the candle flickered as she walked through the room, gently regarded by the pictures in their frames, around the corner -

 

 - and there it was.

 

Sansa had loved almost every painting in this gallery, but this one … this one had been something special. Originally it was a gift from her uncle Benjen - the motive was simple, a wolf in the wild on a snowy night. But the beauty of it! The details, the care, the despair in the wolf’s eyes, the way you could almost feel the bite of the wind as you watched it, could almost sense the burn of the cold. Sansa had stared at this painting for hours on end in her adolescence, constantly discovering new details, new things to love. Even now, in the candlelight, having viewed it a thousand times before, Sansa found the painting breathtaking.

 

Benjen had bought it from the painter, an unknown lad from further up north. Today, the painting must be worth a hundred times what had been payed for it - since then the artist had risen to fame, his works now sought after by every art collector in the Seven Kingdoms.

 

And tomorrow morning he would arrive here, at Winterfell Hall. 

 

Sansa left the gallery half an hour later, going to bed with a smile on her lips.

 

 

And so the day had come.

 

All formally dressed, Sansa, Jeyne, Robb and the baby stood ready to greet Jon Snow in the Winterfell courtyard. The sun was out - a rarity - and Sansa took it as a good sign. Winterfell stood proud around them, impressive grey walls encompassing the yard.

 

Both anxious and delighted, both sweating and grinning, when the car with Jon Snow, Jon _Snow_ , pulled up, Sansa thought about all the times she’d dreamt about meeting him, all the things she wanted to say, the questions she wanted to pose, scenarios that were mind-numbingly close to becoming a reality now … 

 

When he stepped out of the vehicle, just as raggedly handsome as she’d heard him described and with a hungry sort of melancholy in his eyes that she instantly recognized from his paintings, Sansa felt so strong an admiration, and relief, wash over her, for Jon Snow seemed to be everything she had hoped him to be.

 

She did not know then how much she would come to loathe him during the following weeks.

 


	2. Small Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon arrives at Winterfell. Sansa wishes to speak to him.

Here he was.

 

Jon Snow had not been north in so long a time - not since adolescence, really. He’d left the north destitute and heartbroken, after Ygritte … To think that this was the manner in which he would return, as an invited guest to the lord of Winterfell, was as surreal as it was nauseating.

 

Winterfell. 

 

The castle itself was grander than he’d heard, but also grimmer, less regal. This was an ancient building, almost condescendingly so - it was as if the great, grey walls looked down upon him with judgement. Instantly, he wanted to paint this castle, capture the beauty in the sternness of the building.

 

When he stepped out of the car, Jon squinted in the sunlight. Strange. He didn’t remember the North as very sunny. The lord’s family stood lined up to greet him, and Jon fought his urge to sigh frustratedly. He hated these commissions, and meeting the clients was his least favorite part. Sometimes they were condescending, sometimes overly accommodating, almost worshipping, and both ends of the spectrum made Jon equally uncomfortable. 

 

He loved painting people - real people - but the men and women wealthy enough to commission these types of portraits, the people who could afford to pay an amount of money that would keep him afloat for a year until need forced him to take another commission - he had difficulty with painting them, couldn’t quite capture their spirits. Jon needed the money, but hated himself each time he agreed to a commission. He detested having to create things he could not be proud of.

 

In the courtyard, the lord of Winterfell greeted him with a smile and a shake of his hand, and Jon was surprised at the man’s youth. The lord’s wife, too, could not be much older than Jon himself - she too smiled at him, a kind, welcoming smile, introducing the child in her arms as Eddard and the tall, red-haired woman at her side as her sister-in-law. Lady Sansa, dressed in a gorgeous deep blue matching the color of her eyes. She was beautiful, Jon thought before he could stop himself. Beautiful in an uninteresting way, he argued with himself, looking away from her auburn hair and enthusiastic smile. A portrait of her would be boring, since it would lack flaws.

 

After the round of introductions, Jon was lead into the castle, to the sound of praise of his paintings (courtesy of Lady Sansa), gratitude that he had come all this way (courtesy of Lord Robb) and inquiries about how his journey had been (courtesies of Lady Jeyne). Slightly overwhelmed and in a foul mood after the long journey, Jon could sense that his short, grumpy responses to their small talk disappointed them all. 

 

This often seemed to happen - he had managed to obtain such an air of mystery by now, so that when he finally stepped out of the shadows and people met him in real life, not as an obscure and legendary artist but as a man, and a man who never quite seemed to hold a conversation the way he was expected to at that, disappointment was inevitable. The thought tasted bitter.

 

Lady Jeyne eventually came to his rescue, stating Jon must be tired after his journey. The housekeeper would show him to his rooms - he could have tea brought up to his room on a tray, or have it downstairs should he wish it. (Lady Jeyne looked uncomfortable saying the last part. Also a common occurrence, during a commission - the family never knew how to treat him, like one of them or like staff. If they knew how piss poor he was as of now, they’d probably feel less guilty about looking down at him.) Dinner would be served in an hour or two, so he’d have ample time to change, Jeyne assured him. (As if he had been worried about his changing opportunities.) 

 

And finally, after an awkward walk to his room with the housekeeper, Jon was left alone, letting out a breath he had not realized he’d been holding.

 

* * *

 

Reality had not quite yet sunk in. The fact that Sansa was beneath the same roof as Jon Snow still seemed rather too good to be true. 

 

He’d been quiet, so far, just as Sansa had expected. An artistic genius such as Snow could hardly be expected to be good at small talk, Sansa had said with a smile when Jeyne fretted about what to make of the sullen silence of Snow. Sansa herself had not said as much as she would have liked, finding her emotions hard to articulate - what did one say to a person one had admired for ages? 

 

She so desperately wanted to speak to him alone, convey to him how deeply his work had moved her over the years, how much it had meant, what it had helped her go through. The thought alone embarrassed her, to talk to Snow, who - no matter her admiration - was a stranger, about something so personal as her feelings for his work. But how could she pass up on the opportunity? Jon Snow,in Winterfell. The thought still made her smile.

 

So, in a strange rush of courage that Sansa could not explain, she made her way down the stairs, thankfully running into the housekeeper, Mrs Mordane. After a quick inquiry Sansa discovered Snow was indeed downstairs, and she thanked Mrs Mordane and went on her way, the steps of the stairs creaking beneath her, to find and speak to this Jon Snow.


End file.
